


A Simple Matter of Survival

by FickleBiscuits



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Confident Caleb, Cunning Fjord, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemy Lovers, F/M, Kidnapping, Learning to Work Together, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Negotiations, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Powerful Caleb, Slow Burn, Smart Caleb, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-10-29 21:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17816243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FickleBiscuits/pseuds/FickleBiscuits
Summary: “They’ll likely press some of the crew to fill in the ranks. They lost more than a few taking the Crest and at the moment they’re manning both ships with one crew.” Garred jerks his head out to indicate the other ship.“And the rest of us?”“Sold probably.” Garred says, his lips pressed into a thin frown. He tosses Caleb a flippant, one-armed shrug. “Since they’ve bothered keeping us alive at all.”Or: Caleb is captured by pirates and is prepared to do whatever it takes to survive. Falling in love is not part of the plan.Or: Lullabies of the Lawful Evil.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is Liam O'Brain's fault. He uttered the immortal phrase which kidnapped my imagination and went on to title the story which it inspired.  
> Thank you collegeisexpensivebutokay for cheerleading. I hope you like it. ; )

 

 

 

 

> _Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat,_  
>  _only thou and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our_  
>  _pilgrimage to no country and to no end._
> 
> _In that shoreless ocean,_  
>  _at thy silently listening smile my songs would swell in melodies,_  
>  _free as waves, free from all bondage of words._
> 
> _Is the time not come yet?_  
>  _Are there works still to do?_  
>  _Lo, the evening has come down upon the shore_  
>  _and in the fading light the seabirds come flying to their nests._
> 
> _Who knows when the chains will be off,_  
>  _and the boat, like the last glimmer of sunset,_  
>  _vanish into the night?_
> 
> **'Sail Away' by Rabindranath Tagore**
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

 

   Caleb dreams, but it is like no other dream he has ever had before. He comes to himself in the midst of a swirling black abyssal, surrounded by icy dark waters. He is helplessly caught by a ferocious current and hurtled deeper into the inky depths.

   His lungs burn as long minutes pass, begging, insistent. But terror keeps his mouth closed and he clings to the irrational hope that if he waits just a little longer, just a little longer, he’ll be saved. As the moments continue to creep inevitably past, Caleb wages a futile war against the increasing pressure in his chest; until the incessant urge becomes bright pain and he can’t help but open his mouth to let the water in.

   Except it isn’t cold, cruel water which spills in, but cool, clean air. He has no time to ponder this mystery as he pinwheels end over end, plunging headlong, barreling towards some unknown destination. He tries to peer into the deep darkness, but he cannot perceive anything beyond the cold rush of water streaming past his face and the void all around him.

   And then. As suddenly as it began, Caleb’s journey comes to an end. His head lashes against his breastbone as he is jerked into motionlessness. As he hangs, suspended and terrified before the daunting specter of a great, lidless, eye, Caleb’s mind spins, churning spirals of an instant and all-consuming fear. He understands, on some primal level beyond instinct, that this is not some simple creature of the deep; this creature is older than time. And powerful.

   Equal parts foolhardy, curious, and already certain of his own death, Caleb stutters. “What are you?”

   After a horrible, gut-churning moment the eye speaks. The sound of its reply is heavy and reverberant, a great underwater cataclysm. It is the sound of a great hurricane, the voice of a thunderous tidal wave as it smites the coastline. The force of it punches into Caleb’s mind, the echoes ricocheting painfully around in his skull. 

   A single word:

**_“Acceptable.”_ **

   And then Caleb is blown back, dragged away from the eye by the same rushing unseen force as before, plunging, spinning away until he is once again encased in utter nothingness. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

   Caleb wakes from the nightmare to the light creaking of timber around him and the gentle shushing of waves. He gasps hoarsely up at the plank ceiling above him, trying to catch his scattered thoughts and calm the racing of his heart.

   The voice follows him up from the nightmare whirlpool, the memory of it filling up the empty corners of his cabin. He sits up in his small bunk, sweat streaked and shaking.

**_“Acceptable.”_ **

   Caleb heaves out a tremendous breath and wipes at the stinging sweat in his eyes, pushing a matted tangle of hair back from his face.

   “Scheisse.” He breathes, slow and deliberate, until the frantic flutter at his neck mellows and his mind regains some measure of clarity. He bends until his forehead is pressed into the blanketed tent of his bony knees, smelling the mixed brine and musty scent of sleep-worn sheets. This is not the worst dream he’s ever had; not as coarse or bloody as his typical regime of nightmares. But this night terror hangs on him, inexplicabley clingy and the voice continues to repeat, conjuring with it, the visage of that terrible, lidless eye. The darkness of the cabin seems to loom close, transforming into the oppressive, dark swirling waters from his nightmare.

   Caleb tosses the blankets aside, shoving feet into unlaced boots. He distractedly wraps himself in a jacket before slipping quickly down the narrow hall and up onto the open air of the upper deck. The instant he can feel the cool evening breeze kiss at his sweat-slick cheeks, he feels immediately and inexplicably better. The ambiance is better up here too, dotted here and there are lanterns hung from the rafters while crewmen call softly to one another, sleepy and unhurried as ropes and knots were tied. Sails slowly unfurl, pale, like square clouds, bathed in the cold radiance of star and moonlight.

   “Mr. Widogast.” A deckhand approaches, speaking in a low murmur. “I’m surprised to see you up and about at this hour.”

   Caleb turns to greet the first mate, a congenial fellow who introduced himself as Garred. Dark haired and sporting a far more pleasant grin than Caleb would consider appropriate considering the hour, the man stops to offer Caleb one of the two tankards clutched in his hands.

   “A little rum to make the night watches more palatable.” Garred explains before leaning in to whisper conspiratorially as Caleb takes it:

   “Truthfully, t’was meant for Dasha up in the crow’s nest, but you look as though you need it more.”

   “I wouldn’t want to take someone else’s drink.” Caleb tries to hand it back, but Garred shoos him away.

   “I’ll get her another. Now, I doubt you come up just for my company and shite drinks. Is there ought I can do for you Mr. Widogast?”

   “No. Thank you.” Caleb clasps both hands around his tankard and nods, “I just wanted to take in the night air. It seems very peaceful up here.”

   “That it is.” Garred smiles. He folds into a smart half-bow and begins to pace away. “Well, if there’s anything you need, please feel free to come find me astern. Just listen for the snoring. T’will be loud ‘nuff to wake the dead or so I’ve been told.”

   Caleb chuckles and turns towards the prow of the ship, the laces of his untied boots fluttering spider ticks and tacks against the deck with every step. The prow of the ship is deserted but for a handful of crates and the few lines of taut rigging which follow to the base of the bowsprit.

   He settles himself down astride the beam, holding onto the ropes with one hand, his drink in the other, his legs dangling down towards the dark swirling waters below.

   Waves dance and crest against the hull of the ship in icy, frothing peaks, kicking up salt spray to wet Caleb’s skin with cold, stinging spittal. The air is warm around him, humid compared to the dry summers and winters in the empire. His hair curls, rambunkshus across his forehead; teasing the loose folds of his shirt collar. Sweat gathers uncomfortably to trickle down his neck and the bony curvature of his spine. He isn’t used to this heat.

   He wishes Tristan had sent someone else on this fool’s errand. At least then he’d be having nightmares in the comfort of his own rooms.

   Caleb takes a sip from his stolen tankard and raises his eyebrows in mild surprise. 

   At least the alcohol is good.

  The shadow of his dream still lingers, as vivid in his mind as the moment he’d woken. Likely because of his proximity to the ocean, Caleb decides; it keeps the sense-memory alive, brine and water and trapped, past the point any other dream would have faded into dull shades of sepia. It...had felt strange, as though it were real.

   Caleb’s logical mind rejects that thought the instant he’s had it. It was a dream, just like all the others that tug on his bed clothes at night. Probably just a manifestation of his distrust of the ocean and the teaming creatures within. 

   He tries to remember what he’s read of aquatic creatures, but gives it up after a few fruitless minutes. He knowledge of the ocean is limited to the plane of water, nothing useful here now.

   He breathes out the last of the anxious trembling and savors the rum’s heady sweetness. He’s okay now. It wasn’t real, he can put it behind him like all the rest. He’s okay.

   Caleb sits and sips and watches the black waters and lets the paul of memory slowly fall away.

   Which is when the pirates arrive.

 

* * *

  
  
  


   They emerge from the looming night like wraiths, the ship running swift and silent and unlit; invisible in the dark backdrop of a moonless night. Stealthy and unseen it slips through the waters, a predatory fish, until suddenly it strikes, manifesting as if by some horrible, malevolent magic alongside its prey: the small passenger frigate bearing the name ‘Schism’s Crest’.

   The air hangs close and still for a moment, the breath gathered before the bellows. And then the breath is released, one long shattering shriek and the effect is as startling as it is instantaneous. Both ships spring into action, the pirate ship with cheers and yells pitched with battle fever, the frigate with cries of distress and the clang of alarm bells, which are rung far, far too late.

   From his perch at the prow Caleb jerks and cranes his neck around to identify the source of this startling cacophony. He grips the ropes overhead to pull himself upright while the heels of his unlaced boots slip over the edge of the bowsprit’s narrow span. 

  He is caught for a moment in flat-footed indecision, watching, wide-eyed as the first of the boarding hooks smash against the planks, digging up wood in thick curling spirals. He reaches out, automatically, to his belt for a pouch of components which isn’t there. A hot flash of panic bursts in his chest and Caleb remembers with sudden and sickening clarity that he’d left the tiny leather satchel in his room, on the same nightstand where he’s kept his robe and spell books.

   Thoughtless. Stupid. Ignoring everything he’d been taught: 

**_“A wizard is only as powerful as he is prepared.”_ **

   The sharp crack of splintering wood rends the air and a triumphant, bloodthirsty cheer rumbles in on its heels, a battle cry which snaps Caleb’s thoughts back to the present, along with the realization that he’s wasted precious seconds on useless self-recrimination. He watches helplessly as the hoard begin to swarm across the boarding planks. Some swing across on ropes, dropping and somersaulting across the deck, bristling with steel and cackling in maniacal glee.

   “Oh Scheisse.” Caleb breathes as the first of the crew is cut down, a crimson spill that runs black under the shaded sky. 

   His mind is racing, a dozen possibilities, postulations, scenarios; each calculated, computed, quantified in the span of an instant. Caleb knows he cannot hope to prevail in outright combat, not with the enemy in these numbers and not now that they are already overrun; which was likely the pirate’s tactic all along. If he’d been given a few minutes time to prepare...

   But he hadn’t. His only recourse now is escape.

   Caleb flips through his mental index of spells for a solution. He can’t teleport. He doesn’t have the time, even if he were carrying the necessary inks and precious stones on him. He might be able to polymorph himself. A swordfish or a shark, and swim to shore, any shore. Yes, that could work.

   But first he has to get to his room.

   A piteous wailing turns Caleb’s head and he is just in time to watch an ogre, wearing little more than a worn wrap around its loins, lash out with one meaty paw to capture a dwarf around the middle. It hefts the wriggling creature over its head as if it weighed nothing before smashing him headfirst into the planking. 

   Once. Twice. A third time, each impact rapid and brutal. Caleb winces with each pulpy strike, the sharp crunch of bone and snapping of wooden planks. 

   The dwarf’s cries end after the third strike and the ogre chortles, a horrible husky gurgle, even as it continues to smash the corpse against the shattered deck, reducing bone and body to something more reminiscent of pulp. It soon grows tired of its game, now that its victim is silent and tosses the corpse aside, beady black eyes casting about for new quarry. They light upon Caleb where he stands, mute and transfixed. A wide, horrible grin stretches its jagged, toothy maw as it slowly turns to stalk purposefully towards Caleb.

   “Oh Scheisse.” Caleb whispers. He starts to back away on instinct and his foot slips off the edge of the bowsprit, his body arching into the void and he nearly loses his grip on his half empty tankard. 

   On instinct he reaches out, catching hold of the rigging and pulling himself upright, but it’s a near thing and Caleb, for a long, heart-stopping instant, is suspended out on nothing, above a dark, churning sea. For a second he considers letting go, submitting himself to the pitiless hands of the ocean. But the truth of it is, ultimately, Caleb doesn’t want to die.

_ It is perhaps a moot point,  _ he reflects as he hauls himself upright to face the ogre.  _ To die at the hands of pirates, or to die at the ambivalent whim of the sea. What a choice. _

   “Wait.” He shouts and puts up one hand. The ogre doesn’t slow its determined amble, flashing its jagged teeth in a wolfish fauximily of a smile.

   “Fuck it.” Caleb grits his teeth and braces himself, waiting until the monster is nearly upon him before tossing the last of his drink into its eyes.

   The ogre howls in pained surprised and staggers backwards, clawing at its eyes. Caleb darts around it and sprints past, eyes trained ahead on the violent clash of beings, his mind thundering four steps ahead of him.

   His progress is halted by the manacle of five meaty fingers wrapping around his leg. 

   In the space it takes him to gasp Caleb is hauled off his feet, his body whipped in a wide circle. The wind pulls his hair into a thick banner behind him, a streamer of bright red. He has just long enough to realize what’s happening, and for his stomach to plummet before Caleb is physically hurled across the blood-slicked deck in a dervish of wildly spinning limbs. 

   He crashes his way through the bloody melee, toppling a few of the unsuspecting skirmishers, before his back slams into something solid and unyielding with enough force to send stars bursting behind his eyes. The breath is effectively punched from his body, expelled in a massive, inelegant affricate, leaving him dizzy and gasping. 

   Wheezing and dazed imobile, Caleb lolls his head up to try and gauge where he’s come to rest. He has to blink several times to clear away the worst of the dancing spots in his vision and he can make out enough to realize he’s sat up against the main mast, in the middle of the main deck. 

   All around him creatures spend themselves in combat, spilling blood and bone and bowel with passionate impunity. Far away, near the prow of the ship, the ogre’s massive shape is slowly making its way towards him. 

   Panic begins to bubble up, faster and hotter the closer the great shadowy figure looms. The fear reaches up to slap at Caleb’s face, urging him to move, to flee. But Caleb can’t even gather in enough strength into his limbs to stand, let alone stage a grand escape. He makes some token attempt to move his legs and cannot seem to do more than flop them about weakly. 

   Caleb watches in dizzy horror as the hulking form of the ogre finally reaches him. It towers over him, a sweaty, unwashed harbinger of death, chortling and hefting a great club as thick as Caleb’s torso. It says something in it’s grunting, guttural language Caleb can’t understand over the ringing in his ears; though he summizes it’s something to do with killing him since it then draws back its arm, readying the mammoth club to crush him

   Caleb closes his eyes and wonders if Astrid will miss him.

   Probably not.

   Caleb doesn’t register the shout at first. The desk is so awash in the myriad cries of creatures it takes a second shouted: “Bouldergut, stop!” for Caleb to separate this new voice from the others and then to realize its owner is coming closer. 

   A heavy impact jars the deck near his legs. Caleb jumps, his heart racing and his eyes snap open.  He watches in stunned disbelief as the ogre turns to toddle away, dragging its club along the deck behind it like an overlarge dejected toddler. 

   Caleb has only a moment to wrap his head around the fact that he’s still breathing and not, say, a giant sticky puddle on the deck, before another figure steps into his bleary field of view. Caleb does his best to inspect the interloper by the lantern's wane light. He appears male, lean and long-limbed; sporting a sleek green hide and a head of thick dark hair.  _ Orc _ , Caleb’s mind supplies as the man kneels down to take Caleb’s face in his hands, tilting it up into the light. 

   As the orc leans in closer to perform an examination of his own, Caleb gets his first glimpse at the man’s face. He’s surprised to see, instead of the squat, brutish features typical of the orcish race, a classically handsome face peering down into his own. 

_    Half-orc _ . He amends, noting the lack of protruding tusks at the man’s full mouth, the orcish slit-pupils and phosphorescent yellow eyes. 

   Age faded scars form an ‘x’ above one thick eyebrow and another, smaller line bisects the right side of his ample upper lip. Oddly enough, these don’t detract from the pirate’s good looks, instead they seem to suit him, chiseling what would’ve been wrongly angelic features into something more magnetically rugged.

   “W-who...?” Caleb manages to rasp as slender fingers brush back the hair from his forehead. Gently. Which isn’t an adverb Caleb ever would’ve associate with pirates before this moment. 

   “Stay still.” Is all the orcish man says in answer and helps guide Caleb’s limp body forward until his chin is tucked in the crook of the man’s neck, where the collar of his worn armor gives way to smooth, hot skin.

   “What-” Caleb starts to ask, but his questions are cut off by a flash of blue-green light and the explosion of pain at the back of his skull, which robs him of speech and thought and plunges him into the empty abyss of unconsciousness.

 

 

* * *

 

  Caleb awakens to jubilant shouts and blazing sunlight jabbing through the insufficient shield of his eyelids. He blinks rapidly up into the tangled mass of ropes and rigging to watch men and women clamber about like primates across beams and up masts. They call to each other in baudy tones; words Caleb cannot discern from this distance.

  It seems so mundane a picture from where he lays, a scene from any one of the many merchant ships he’d seen docked at port Damali, if it weren’t for the bloody cavalcade of memories he has from last night.

  Pirates. He’s been kidnapped by pirates.

  Caleb starts to lever himself up and his skull becomes an inflamed, throbbing spot of hurt which doubles him over. He sags his head down between his legs as wave after wave of agony induced nausea buffets his stomach to a bubbling froth, threatening to disgorge.

  “Hey, here.” A waterskin appears in front of Caleb’s face, its sides dark and gleaming with moisture. He takes it, drinking slowly and in careful mouthfuls. He slows down once the initial danger of explosive expulsion has passed. Only once he’s squeezed that last of the water from the skin does Caleb attempt to raise his head.

  Garred is watching him, concern and amusement mingled on his face. He takes the empty skin from Caleb, offers a second.

  “Our captors might be brigands in all else, but they’ve not been stingy with the food and water.”

  “Thank you.” Caleb murmurs, but waves off the second proffered skin. He doesn’t trust his equilibrium enough to risk a shake of his head just yet. Garred produces a folded cloth from his pocket and wets it before pressing the cool cloth into Caleb’s hand. He gestures around at the back of his own neck.

  “You’ve got a pretty good goose egg.” He says, grinning good-naturedly as Caleb presses the make-shift compress to where the throbbing is still fierce, wincing at the cool relief.

  “It certainly feels that way. How long was I unconscious?”

  “Well...” Garred humms, shading his eyes to track the sun. “...most of a full day give or take. I was starting to wonder if you intended to sleep the rest of the trip.”

  “I am certainly pleased to be waking up at all.” Given his last concrete memory. Caleb glances around the deck. He is, to his relief, still aboard the Schism’s Crest, grouped with a dozen or so other unfortunate survivors. Most of which look absolutely miserable. Just a few dozen yards off the port bow, the pirate ship sailed, tucked neatly into the frigate’s wing. It’s a beautiful ship, hewn from bright wood, polished and clean from the tip of its long bowsprit to the generous railing which hedged in the stern deck. Caleb spots the muted gleam of black iron set in ports along the ship side, counts three within his line of sight and knows there are more. This fearsome beast has more teeth.

  “Agreed.” Garred nods companionably. He cranes his around to look at their captors. The pirates, or at least the ones Caleb can see, seem generally uninterested in their prisoners. The ones who aren’t above or occupied with assigned tasks are milling around in small groups, embroiled in dice games or gossip or drink or a combination of the three. A few metres away their guards lounge under the shade of the mainsail, gossiping over their cards and not paying any attention to their hapless captives. Which is fair enough, Caleb decides. It isn’t as though there’s anywhere they can go.

  “I wonder what they mean to do with us.” Caleb murmurs, more to himself, but Garred responds readily enough.

  “They’ll likely press some of the crew to fill in the ranks. They lost more than a few taking the Crest and at the moment they’re manning both ships with one crew.” Garred jerks his head out to indicate the other ship.

 “See, they’ve only got two in the rigging right now? A ship that size needs three in fair skies. Mark my words, if the Captain is smart, they’ll have tapped us before the day is up.”

  Caleb can see the two figures, more black silhouettes than people, but he nods his understanding. “And the rest of us?”

  “Sold probably.” Garred says, his lips pressed into a thin frown. He tosses Caleb a flippant one-armed shrug. “Since they’ve bothered keeping us alive at all.”

  “Good to know.” Caleb replies.

  Garred smiles apologetically and salutes Caleb with the second waterskin before moving away to the next scattered cluster of woebegone prisoners, offering each the same care and kind words as he’d given Caleb.

  Caleb turns his focus back to the ship around him. He can detect no signs of exhaustion in the crew beyond what one might expect from a hard day’s work. The pirates all seem in good spirits. Fresh off a victory, most chatter and bellow to each other, exchanging bawdy jokes and belly laughs as they heave and tie off rigging. A few show off new bangles or sashes or coats, likely their share of the recently dispersed spoils.

  Caleb spares a fleeting thought to where his own bag of magical belongings ended up before he resigns himself to the probability of his never seeing that bag, or its contents, ever again.

  “Captain on deck.” Someone aft shouts and Caleb’s attention, along with everyone else’s, shifts to the quarter deck. He watches as two figures come into view to stand at the quarterdeck. One is female, slender and beautiful, with a thick mane of russet curls running wild down her back and shoulders. She stands proudly, her bare arms crossed diminutively over her chest. Her elfen heritage is plain enough, even at a distance, the slim, petite build and delicate features would be enough to hint at it, even without the elongated tips of her ears peeking out from beneath the wide brim of her ostentatiously plumed hat. She carries herself with the ease of one aware of both her sexual appeal and the practical application of it and with something else...a guarded watchfulness which is predatory.

  Not a woman to be trifled with.

  But as beautiful and compelling as the woman is, it is her companion who captures Caleb’s interest. He stands nearly a head and a half over the elf woman, dressed in dark, worn leathers. The midday sun gleams off the sweat slick on his verdant skin and the thick, glossy tumble of his dark hair. It’s the same half-orc Caleb had encountered last night.

  Caleb sneers at his choice of words. _‘Encounter’_. As though he’d run into an old friend whilst on a stroll and had a pleasant chat.

  Caleb watches closely as the elfin woman turns slightly to her companion and a begins making passive gestures to parts of the ship and crew.

  The way the half-orc nods, and hold himself. It’s in his posture and body language, easily read for anyone with half a brain. This woman is the captain. And the half-orc, he is the first mate? Caleb considers the pair of them. More than likely. If not the first mate, than a senior officer certainly.

  So this man of high rank had saved him. But what does it mean?

  Probably nothing. Caleb remembers him kneeling down, turning Caleb’s face up into the wane lantern light before pummeling him into unconsciousness. He was likely as not simply checking to see if Caleb looked well enough to sell.

  That thought sat unpleasantly, though it had the ring of truth to it; more so than the idea that this brigand had been moved to save Caleb’s life out of any sense of remorse. To ascribe compassion to a person who made their living by the pain and hardship of other creatures would be laughably naive. And Caleb...isn’t naive.

  He wonders what the half orc saw in him he thought was worthy of preservation. If he can discover that trait, he might be able to use it to ingratiate himself to the man. It’s an admittedly flimsy plan, but for now it’s his only plan. His primary goal from this moment on, is survival.

  Absolutely everything else is secondary.

  Caleb’s eyes wander, unbidden, to the quarterdeck. They slide down sinewy biceps, forearms corded with lean muscle. They trace the pleasingly sculpted torso wrapped in fitted leather.

  Yellow eyes dart to him and across the great span of the deck their gazes lock. The half orc’s expression is guarded, but intense. Something sultry shivers through Caleb at the contact, hard and hot like awareness. The breath catches in his throat, his mouth suddenly arid.

  The pirate’s eyes narrow and the handsome, orcish head tilts ever so slightly. Curious maybe. Intrigued?

  Caleb ducks down to hide the telling burn of his face and neck. Though he knows it’s already far too late. He feels the pressure of the man’s gaze on him for minutes after he’s trained his head towards the mizzenmast and the seagulls spiraling slow circles around the crow’s nest. Perhaps he is only imagining the seering pressure licking at the back of his neck, though Caleb doesn’t have anything like the courage to turn around and check.

  It doesn’t matter. He has a goal, he reminds himself and hunches his shoulders, bracing against the continuing sensation of eyes. He needs to focus. He needs more information.

  Absolutely everything else...is secondary.

  Caleb repeats the words enough times to bank the snapping cadence of sparks that tingle along his skin. Eventually.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

  Caleb summons Frumkin once night falls.

  He curls up on the inadequate cushion of his jacket, feigning sleep, and waits for the ambient clatter of voices and footsteps to diminish before clicking his fingers and channeling magic into intent. He feels his power surge in response to the simple command, surging up to briefly bridge the gap between planes and then there is a corresponding influx of awareness between mage and familiar.  

  He slips at once into his familiar’s mind and Caleb is suddenly soaring high above the frigate’s main mast. He guides Frumkin around in slow arcs around both ships and takes a few moments to savor the sensation of flight. It feels as though he is breathing free for the first time since he woke and Caleb has to squash down the reckless urge to be bold with this newfound freedom. He knows a hawk is not a seabird, and anyone who gives Frumkin a second glance will know something is amiss. Unfortunately, Caleb can’t afford to sit idle. He needs more information in order to conjure a means of escape and so he’ll need to play a calculated risk.

  Caleb glides Frumkin as low as he dares over the Schism’s Crest, searching for hushed conversation, bowed heads and furtive looks, but few are out on deck tonight. The prisoners are segregated into a sad little huddle off to the port side. The watch, a young air Genasi girl, yawns from her place in the crowsnest. Two or three hands are perched aloft, cradled in an improvised knot of ropes, waiting for the winds to change so they can loose or secure the sails as needed. One man stands at the helm, sleepy-eyed and scratching at the reddened skin of a new tattoo. None of the assembled night watch seem embroiled in or predisposed to conversation at the moment.

  Disappointed, Caleb begins to slip out of the hawk’s perception, resigned. The more Frumkin is out, the more likely he’ll slip up and someone will notice he’s not where he ought to be, He’ll have to make another attempt tomorrow night.

  Caleb makes one more pass across the deck and sees him. Emerging from the stairs to the lower decks, a smudge of green and black cast in the grey of dusk’s muted glow. It’s the half-orc.

  Keenly, Caleb tracks his path, watches as he paces over to exchange a few words with the navigator. The conversation is too brief to allow Caleb the chance to maneuver Frumkin in close, but he does catch a few words wafted up on the breeze.

  “Captain Avantika...clears skies all the...”

  The navigator chuckles, scratches some more. “We can hope. If anyone can make the sea and sky...it’d be she.”

  The orc’s answer is lost as Frumkin circles wide and by the time he’s coming back around the pair are bidding each other goodnight. The Half-orc’s smile is a smidgen mocking as he turns to look over his shoulder from the stairs.

  “While I’m thinking about it, do you need anything, Coris? You’ve got a few hours left for your watch. Mulled wine maybe? A blanket? Your good slippers?”

   “Fuck you, Fjord.” The navigator growls without any real heat and makes to check a hanging compass before rotating the large wheel in his grasp. “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Suit yourself.” The half-orc grins and starts moving up the walkway. Towards the Captain’s cabin if Caleb recalls correctly.  And Caleb always recalls correctly.

  Caleb gives Frumkin instruction to go round to the ship’s stern, frustrated and determined to follow Fjord. He’s gotten two names, Fjord and Captain Avantika, though neither sparks any kind of recollection in him. It is nice, however, not to have to keep referring to Fjord as: ‘The Half-Orc’, now.

  There’s a small balcony at the back of the ship, a series of thick-framed windows and door which lead directly into the Captain’s quarters. Rather ostentatious, Caleb had thought, especially on a sailing ship. But now he is grateful for the late captain’s opulence, because if Caleb is very lucky he’ll be able to hear something through them.

  Frumkin finds the small balcony easily around back enough and Caleb is both shocked and pleased to find the door has been set slightly ajar to let in some of the cooler evening air. The hawk lights on one of the tall rails, close enough for Caleb to hear the slight hum of murmured voices drifting from the cabin; not quite close enough to pick out the words though. Carefully, ever so carefully, he sends the hawk gliding down and toddling over, as near the open door as he dares. And slowly, _slowly_ , Frumkin peeks inside.

  He perceives two figures, Fjord and Captain Avantika, both bathed in warm glow from a few oil lanterns suspended from hooks in the low ceiling. The half-orc stands at the ornately carved desk, bent over various maps and charts spread across its gleaming, veneered surface while across him the Captain has draped herself sideways over a high-backed chair, sipping something dark from a crystal tumbler Caleb remembers last seeing in the late Captain’s hand for an after dinner port.

  “...a fine ship.” She’s saying, a winsome smile playing coyly at the corners of her ample mouth. “For a fine captain.”

  “I can find no fault in her.” Fjord answers distractedly and the half-elf woman laughs, a soft exhalation that feels more like disapproval than amusement.

  “Ah, Fjord...” She says, sliding artlessly to her feet. She rounds the desk in three graceful steps, all but disappearing behind the breadth of Fjord’s broad shoulders until Caleb spots one arm wrapping around his chest, her slender fingers splayed wide to hold him close.

  Or so Caleb assumes, it’s hard to tell from his vantage point.

  “...I do so enjoy when you play coy.” Her voice is muffled, teasing.

  Fjord’s face hardens, but when he responds his voice is light, betraying none of the mutinous set of his brows, his mouth.

  “We both know the ship is yours, Avantika. I’m just keeping it **warm** for you.”

  Avantika’s laugh is lilting. She reappears, hitching the curvaceous round of her hip against one corner of the desk. In the split second it takes her to come around him Fjord’s face is carefully rearranged into an expression of cheery playfulness.

   _Interesting_.

  Avantika brings a hand up to touch Fjord’s face, tracing her knuckles along the well-formed cheekbones, the strong jawline.

  “But you are so good at keeping my things warm.” She laughs, emphasizing the word **_‘things’_ **. “Do you begrudge that I would let you continue?”

  Fjord chuckles as well, but it lacks genuine amusement. The captain’s eyes narrow. She tilts her head and takes a slow, careful sip of her wine, studying her first-mate.

  “You’re very...cold tonight.” She says at last, setting aside her glass, her posture and tone suddenly sharp.

  Fjord glances to her and then looks away sheepish and caught. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be. I guess I’m a bit preoccupied. Just trying to wrap my head around what’s expected of me as acting captain. There’s a lot to-”

  “Fjord…” Avantika snaps and she lashes out with the speed of a striking serpent. She grasps Fjord by the chin and pulls him down, close, until their lips only a breath apart. She cards the fingers of her other hand up through his hair, equal parts affection and entrapment. She purs against his mouth.

  “...Don’t lie to me.”

  Caleb feels a sympathetic shiver race down his spine at the cold, violent implication insinuated into the very timber of her words. She reminds him, in that moment, of Trent’s cold, calculating fury. Bottled up and only unleashed when necessary, and always to devastating effect. And if Caleb is correct, and the two of them are anything alike at all, then Fjord should be very, very, afraid right now.

  “I…” Fjord tries to turn his head away, but Avantika pulls him back by the hand on his chin, the hand in his hair tightens, keeps their eyes locked.

  “Tell me what has your attention.” A command, issued on a lover soft whisper.

  “It’s nothing.” Fjord says, swallowing and casting his eyes to the side.

  Avantika bites him, so suddenly it makes Caleb jump; quick and deep enough to leave a set of deep green scores in the flesh of Fjord’s jaw. She presses her thumb into the marks after she pulls away, not at all gentle, and Fjord hisses a sharp wince. But he makes no move to pull away, nor does he struggle in her grasp.

_Curiouser and Curiouser._

  “I will let you try once more.” Avantika leans in to huff the words against his mouth, her voice carrying all the weighted potential of a cocked pistol. “But _only_ once more.”

  Fjord doesn’t speak for the span of several heartbeats. He swallows and works his jaw, as if hefting the feel of the words on his tongue. When he does reply his voice is soft, as if he were confessing a deep secret. “It won’t be a problem, I promise. I just find him interesting. That’s all.”

  Avantika draws back enough to look into Fjord’s face, her expression searching and curious and a bit surprised.

  “Him.”

  Fjord nods once.

  “Who?” But before Fjord can clarify Avantika is already speaking to answer her own question. “One of the prisoners.”

  Another nod.

  “Which one?” Caleb can’t tell if she’s furious or amused. And that is...concerning.

  “Please.” Begging. “...It’s just a passing...amusement...I don’t really...you’re...I wouldn’t-”

  Avantika’s laugh is as charming as it is unexpected. She closes the last of the space between them to fit her teeth lightly over her previous bite and then gentles a kiss over the blood-darkened skin. “You worry too much, Fjord. You may certainly have your flights of fancy; I do not mind. I only care that we are honest with one another, yes?”

  She releases him fully, untangles herself before moving away from the desk, slinking towards the door with a sultry sway to her hips. She turns at the door, looking at Fjord through heavy lidded eyes. “I will not be as...available as I have been, you should take your pleasures where they can be had.

  “Consider the ginger man a gift. Part of your share, since this ship doesn’t seem to please you.”

  The blood turns to ice in Caleb’s veins and he waits for Fjord to laugh, to deny it. To tell her she’s mistaken, it isn’t the skinny, read-headed man he wants. But Fjord jerks his head up and his words are steeped in surprise.

  “How did you...” Fjord starts to say. Avantika cuts him off with a lilting, mirthful hum and a shake of her head, reaching up to toy absently with a stray curl.

  “Shame on you, Fjord.” She tuts and Caleb feels his gorge rising. “We’ve sailed together all this time and still you do not understand. I did not come this far by being _unobservant_.”

  Fjord swallows and nods.

  Caleb dismisses his familiar and returns to himself, blinking eyes wide into the blackness, so much thicker without the keenness of his hawk’s perception to filter through it. He sits up and leans back against the high railing. His skin feels tingly and too tight and his thoughts are a meandering pinwheel of one phrase.

_He desires me._

  Caleb isn’t sure if he wants to cry or laugh aloud. This is his best way forward. Of course it is. Because this is the purest of hubris. Pretend to be seduced by the beautiful half-orc pirate in order to buy himself time to gather the resources he’ll need to escape.

 Not that it’ll be a hardship exactly, Caleb isn’t in the business of self-denial. He is willing to admit he finds the orcish pirate attractive, which in itself is a bit...surprising. He’s never considered any of the monstrous species ‘handsome’ before, never had occasion to meet any really.

  But now is not the appropriate time for a personal crisis. Caleb neatly tucks away this startling bit of self-revelation for examination at a later date. For now, he needs to keep his mind clear for what’s to come. The dangers of playacting the lover are double-edged enough without the added tendency towards androcide in ones prospective bed partner.

  Though that’s assuming Fjord wants to pretend at anything like lovers or gentleness. Caleb supposes he’ll need to be prepared for that...less appealing possibility as well.

  A flurry of motion nearer the stern of the ship catches Caleb’s attention. Speak of the devil.

  Fjord is making his way down the wooden steps to the main deck, trailing Avantika who seems to be on course for one of the canvas covered long-boats pushed up against the ship’s side. Fjord calls out in deep bellows and creatures scramble down from the web of rigging to follow his commands, rushing to hoist the small craft up and over the side.

  For the next few minutes the ship is a flurry of bustling chaos again. Fjord and Avantika are standing a little ways off, supervising the work with the stern impassiveness which seems to be universal of all leadership. Caleb’s seen longboats raised and lowered before; with competent hands, this will be the work of another one or two minutes.

  ...Minutes in which the Captain’s cabin will be completely empty...

  As quietly as he can, Caleb scrambles over next to the nearest conscious prisoner and whispers to her, trying to find a secure place against the rail to support himself.

  “Bitte, Fräulein, could you rest your hand on my shoulder and shake me very hard if you see that elvish woman or her half-orc companion heading for the stairs?” He indicates Avantika and Fjord each in turn.

  The young woman furrows her brow in confusion, but nods and Caleb is already closing his eyes and summoning up Frumkin. He pops Frumkin back into the prime material on the balcony and wastes no time, hurrying the hawk forward at an awkward hop and flap up onto the desk.

  Maps and charts of the Swavain Islands, the Lucidian Ocean and the greater part of the Menagerie coast are unfurled atop it, held down by small sculpted paperweights, cast in the visage of a variety of sea creatures. A dull bit of charcoal pencil is set beside a sextant and a brass compass on one side of the desk, though none have been used recently, either to chart their course or mark a current position on any of the maps. There are some marks, old, and tracing back to Port Damali, but these end abruptly a little ways past Bisaft Isle. At least, Caleb thinks with a sigh, it’s a point of reference.

  He takes a moment to orient himself, recall the position of the sun as it had dipped below the horizon. They had turned South-Southeast and had maintained that course, to the best of his knowledge, for the last full day.

  Caleb traced down the map with one of Frumkin’s taloned feet, traversing empty water until he hit a landmass, a lone island nearly falling off the Southwest corner of the map.

  Darktow Isle.

  Someone is shaking him, jerky, frantic. Frumkin is gone that instant, Caleb emerging from his dive with a slight gasp. He’s turning to thank the young woman, but she isn’t looking at him, eyes wide and pinned forward. Her body is rigid with terror.

  Caleb follows the train of her gaze and his own muscles lock with fear.

  Fjord is watching them. The yellow of his eyes gleaming hot and phosphorescent in the darkness and Caleb is pinned under the fathomless force of it. His mouth goes dry, vision narrowed down until all he can see is the handsome face, a set of wide shoulders. A pair of gleaming eyes.

   _He knows._ Caleb thinks for one horrible, indelible moment before he realizes that’s both foolish and completely impossible. And then he remembers that next instant:

_He wants you._

  Caleb feels the blood rush up into his cheeks, a torrent of light-headedness and panicky flutters. Everything feels too hot, not the cloying, wet heat of this Southern tropical air, but the inferno of guilty desire. It’s going to happen now, he realizes. Fjord’s been given permission. He’s going to come and take Caleb and drag him to his cabin and...and...

  Fjord shifts, a small step towards him and Caleb’s breath catches, his muscles tense. Ready. For battle. For flight.

   _No_ . He reminds himself, pushes down the giddy panic. _This is what has to happen. This is what he wants to happen. He’ll be okay. He’ll...he’ll survive._

But Fjord just...walks away. He breaks eyes contact, taking long strides back to the quarter deck, taking the steps two at a time. And then he’s gone, vanished from Caleb’s view.

  Caleb stares after him, blinking in disbelief as his heart rate slowly calms. Beside him, the girl breaths out a shaky sigh of relief.

  “Oh, thank the platinum dragon. I thought he was coming for me for sure.”

  “Yeah.” Caleb manages, a little annoyed that she hadn’t done what he’d asked her to, but a bit too shaken himself to address it. Instead he just says:  “I’m glad you’re okay.” And crawls back over to his coat on wobbly limbs. He curls up in it. Tries not to think.

  About anything.

  He’s not even a little successful; he spends long hours tossed by restless turning, over and over again; caught between exhaustion and hyper-alertness and wondering what force has stayed the half-orc’s hand.

  And when this respite will end.

  In the short periods when he does manage to drift into something like sleep, his dreams are relentless and full of muddled, half-formed images of disembodied hands reaching out for him from the unlit interior of the Captain’s cabin. They tangle in his clothes and hair, tugging and impervious to his struggles, dragging him inexorably into the darkness.

  He wakes, heart racing, the sky dribbling into the grey preamble of dawn and waits, shivering, for the sun to rise.

   _Perhaps_ , he thinks, _he is not as ready as he thought he was._

 

* * *

 

 

  Caleb doesn’t fare much better in daylight. He spends the majority of the morning jumpy and irritable, tensing whenever the sound of footsteps pass close to the huddle of prisoners. Which is frustratingly often.

  By the afternoon he’s achy and tired, anxiety blending together with the weariness from that morning. Fjord appears out on deck early in the morning, adding to the overanxious buzz of Caleb’s nerves. Though the pirate, frustratingly, does nothing to hint at their fierce eyelock from last night, nor even the desire he apparently feels. He ignores the captives entirely, choosing instead to bark directions to his crew and lend a hand where necessary.

  He doesn’t look in Caleb’s direction once.

  Caleb rolls between maddening bouts of frustration and relief. His room to maneuver is limited out here. And, as unpleasant as the cost would be, Fjord’s attention would gain him a certain level of immunity amongst the crew. Perhaps even grant him a measure more privacy.

    His gaze darts back to Fjord. The half-orc stands midship, calling up to one of the crew aloft who grins and tosses down a rope. He’s out of his armor today, dressed instead in a pair of fitted greaves and a loose white shirt which gapes wide at the collar.

  It’s a...pleasant image. And it gets even better once Fjord winds the rope around his hands and begins to pull, the muscles of his legs bunching and flexing. Caleb leans back to give himself a better view, watching the half-orc with careful, discerning eyes. He can glean nothing from him though, beyond what his limited perception has already told him.

  Fjord is frustrating. An incomprehensible puzzle. A riddle with no easy answer. And the longer Caleb ponders it, the more complex and befuddling that puzzle becomes.

  Fjord strains and stretches, inching backward step by step until he judges he’s gained enough lead and the rope is tied off at it’s new length. What purpose it has served Caleb isn’t sure, beyond giving Fjord’s skin an appealing sheen of sweat. His shirt is beginning to soak through under the arms and at the middle of his back and Fjord reaches back to grab the collar, pulling it over his head in a single smooth motion.

  Caleb swallows and his mind is already spinning fantasies, images of pale hands grasping at the ridges of his spin, fingers digging into the broad line of shoulder blades. Sliding lower...then chasing the abraded flesh with his lips...his tongue...his teeth.

  Perhaps being taken would not be **entirely** unpleasant...  

  “Are you well, Mr. Widogast?” Garred asks over lunch, flicking some crumbs off the thighs of his trousers, hazel eyes large and full of concern.

  “I’m well enough.” Caleb says, flicking his eyes away from the long planes of Fjord’s back, speaking around a mouthful of thickly sliced ham, dried and cured in salt enough for two oceans. It leaves his tongue thick and tacky and he longs for the plentiful fruits and vegetables and fresh breads served  at the tables of the Academy. An oven-warm pasty filled with goat cheese and spinach, or one of the cooks special concoctions, set out for those who stay up late studying, a tart filled with fresh cream and cold sliced fruit.

  “I didn’t have what you would call a restful sleep last night.”

  “Ah.” Garred says around a thick mouthful, bobbing his head in sympathy. “Well, you’ve nothing but time now. I’m sure our captor’s wouldn’t care if you had a kip to tide you over.”

  “Actually.” Caleb sets aside the last of his disappointing lunch and dusts off his hands. “I was wondering if I might ask you a question.”

  “Certainly.”

  Caleb leans in and whispers. “I was wondering if you’d ever heard the name ‘Darktow’ before?”

  “Fuck yeah.” Garred laughs, but stops when he realizes Caleb is serious. He leans forward, but doesn’t bother pitching his voice in a whisper.

  “You mean you haven’t?”

  “I’m...not from around here.” Caleb says glibly. Garred snorts, sitting back up again.

  “No shit. Well, Darktow…” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “You see, awhile ago there was a rebellion. I don’t really recall about what, but when the storm passed the ones left in charge decided they’d had enough taking orders and declared independence you could say. Formed their own hierarchy, called themselves the Revelry and made sure no gets on the isle unless they’re a member.”

  “Or hard merchandise.” Caleb puts in dowerly.

  Garred concedes the point with a polite incline of his head and a wry smirk.

  “The revelry are most known for piracy and...well, not much else actually. More horror stories and fables floatin’ around since most who encounter them are not heard from again.”

  “And how near to this Darktow are we, would you say?”

  “From our last location…” Garred casts his eyes upward and considers. “I think it might be a few more days. We’ve had fair and following seas and the wind’s been nothing but Southerly. Right magical that.”

  “Thank you.” Caleb says and rubs at his eyes, wishing nightfall would come a little swifter.

  Garred squints and peers at Caleb. “Might I inquire as to how you came by the name, Mr. Widogast? Since you’d not heard of it before.”

  “I overheard it.” Caleb lies easily. “And I was curious.”

  Garred nods, but Caleb isn’t sure if he’s swallowed the lie. Even if he didn’t, the former first mate doesn’t speak to contradict Caleb, so the wizard decides it’s of little consequence. The less he knows about who Caleb is and what he’s done, the safer he’ll be.

  Not that Caleb cares exactly, but it’s troublesome to have to cover for two people rather than just himself.

  Caleb tosses the last of his food overboard in a show of pique. Which is perhaps beneath him, but feels nice anyway. If Fjord doesn’t act on his inclinations, Caleb may not need to worry about covering for anyone.

  This is not all ambiguous sexual curiosity that stokes this fire into a blaze, but pragmatism as well. So far as Caleb understands it, he has no standing here, no respect; Fjord holds absolute power over him, can do whatever he wants with any of them. There is absolutely no reason Caleb can think of why he wasn’t pulled into the Captain’s cabin the second Avantika left the ship and bent over.

  Maybe tonight. He thinks and puts his coat over his head to shield him from the worst of the sun.

  But it isn’t that night, or the next. Caleb keeps watching, keeps waiting. He summons Frumkin again and again, circling and listening and hoping he’ll overhear something that will help him solve this thought puzzle. But he never does. Fjord locks the balcony doors and never keeps company. The few times Caleb catches him outside, it’s only for a bit of small-talk about the ship, or the sails, or the weather. No word about the prisoners, or Caleb, or bed mates. It’s as if Caleb had hallucinated the entire conversation between Fjord and Avantika.

    With each passing day Caleb grows increasingly frustrated. Garred stops asking around night two, perhaps acknowledging that a lie of omission is easier to stomach than Caleb’s evasive non-answers; though he continues to make sure Caleb is drinking enough water.

  Caleb rolls with the rhythmic listing of the ship and drifts to sleep the fourth night wondering how it is that the more knows, the less he understands.

 

* * *

 

 

_He is swimming again; murky, dark waters all around, but he can see light above him this time. A few faint beams filtering mutely down. He kicks towards it, flailing his arms out, grasping, reaching out for the surface just above. He stretches, his mind growing dizzy from held breath._

_Reaching..._

_Reaching..._

_At last his fingers breach the surface and in another instant his head pushes through. And then he’s out, gasping and spluttering and in the midst of a wide, green ocean. The sky is clear and endlessly blue above him, with only a hot pinprick of a sun to mar its flawless specter._

_Caleb floats and treads water, turning in all directions, surveying the endless sea around him._

_“Hello?” He calls and hears nothing but the dull roar of the ocean answer back._

_He loses track of time as he swims and calls out to no one. The sun never changes position as he fights an increasingly exhausting battle to keep his head above the waves. Once, just once, he thinks he glimpses a small dark smudge on the horizon, but just as soon as he raises his hands and voice to it, it is gone._

_Caleb spends the rest of his dream searching for that dark smudge, the glimmer of hope bright in his chest even when his dream body slips back down into the depths and his eyes flutter open into true wakefulness._

 

* * *

 

 

   Fine. Caleb decides over breakfast, determination rising from a festering tide of frustration. If Fjord isn’t going to act, then Caleb will.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a little longer than I anticipated, but we're set.  
> I also missed a few weeks of Critical Role and had a chance to catch up again yesterday. I'm very sure that Jester and Fjord are going to become canon here pretty soon, but I promise I'm not going to stop writing Widofjord you guys. As long as Caleb and Fjord continue to have fantastic chemistry, I'm here.  
> Thank you to everyone who left a comment or kudos. You are amazing! We really do have an incredible, positive fandom and I'm so glad to be part of it.  
> <3

 

   Caleb’s plan goes through several iterations. 

   His first thought is make a spectacle in front of the crew, demand to speak to the captain in the middle of the day. Back Fjord into a proverbial corner. Perhaps a literal one. 

   He’d go to his knees in front of the half-orc, he thinks. Proclaim in bold detail the voracious, uncontrollable extent of his burning, if fictitious, desire for the half orc. Hopefully, this will be enough to force a declaration of ownership in turn from the elusive pirate. 

_    ...And maybe Fjord would pull at the ties of his breeches right there in the middle of the deck, reach out with his gentle hands to card the sharp points of his nails through Caleb’s hair; keeping his head steady while he teased at the seam of Caleb’s lips with one thumb. And maybe Caleb would let his lips be coaxed open, let the tip of Fjord’s thumb press inside. Maybe he would run his tongue along the pad as he...as he...  _

   But that plan is discarded as quickly as it’s formed, shame burning his ears. 

_    “Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. Or you might find that the answer isn’t something you can control.” _

   Trent’s cold censure helps to shape the next delineation of his plan. The words pulled from a time Caleb can only recall with hazy detail. 

   A small room... 

_    ...The flash of a knife. Cuts and crystals and darkness. So much darkness. _

   Caleb wrenches himself back to the present, poised to fly. The sight of the ship calms him somewhat, reassuring and solid and sunshine and salty.

   Gingerly Caleb gathers the fragments of memory and locks them away within himself, tucked away with everything else he’s never been brave enough to examine. 

_ Not now. _ He tells himself. He can’t deal with it now.

 There are problems to be solved here and now, intelligent questions to be asked, such as: What would Fjord do if Caleb approached him from a position of weakness? What would he do if Caleb put him on the spot in front of the entire crew? Caleb deliberates, but cannot say with any certainty what he might do. He’s seen Fjord cowed and fold like a sheep put to sheers for Avantika, his rightful superior. But even then, in the moment of his submission, Caleb had witnessed a moment, a flicker of anger which seemed soured the deferential tone of Fjord’s otherwise flawless performance. Caleb has to wonder: had Fjord been dissembling then? A lesser predator showing its belly to the greater to avoid being eaten? There is no way he can know the answer to any of these questions, not within this current and chaotically shifting set of variables he’s been given. And if that is the case, it will make any preparation useless because all the data he’s managed to glean so far will have been false anyway!

   But. If he could get Fjord alone. Then they could have their talk like reasonable, rational creatures. Lay out the many benefits which come with a...cooperative working relationship.

   Caleb’s stomach churns with apprehensive ill and something more softly, tentatively curious. Caleb curls himself around both until they’ve been smothered. He has no time to foster either. His eyes lazily roll across the deck. The Captain’s cabin is really the only suitable option. The only trouble is, he has to find a way to get to Fjord’s cabin and while Fjord is there. 

   “You could try walking.” He laughs at himself, a short, humorless husk of a thing. It’s straightforward. Simple. And...well...actually, the more he thinks about it, the more it starts to seem like his best option. 

_    Best _ of course by virtue of it being his  _ only _ option for getting from point A to point B. His list of castable spells may be extremely limited, but it is by no means exhausted. He still has a few tricks up his sleeve, and plenty of cunning. He’s not done. Not by a longshot. 

_    “A wizard is only as powerful as he is prepared.” _

  “I know, I know.” Caleb grits his teeth against Trent’s mocking voice and begins the tedious task of tracing through each possible step on his way to the topdeck. His first challenge will be crossing the long stretch of crowded space to the stairway undetected. He’ll have to make the attempt when there are a minimum of bystanders out on deck if he wants to have a hope of success. He briefly considers using cantrips as a distraction, but rejects the idea nearly as quickly. The range and flexibility of that spell is too limited in this wide space. 

   Sealth it is.  

   The next and, technically, hardest part is going to be getting past the navigator on the quarterdeck, since whomever is standing at the wheel is going to have a completely unobstructed view of the stairway and whoever is coming up them. Caleb has also learned enough over his last week at sea to  know there’s always someone at the wheel, so waiting for a changing of the guard isn’t an option. He’s painfully aware of how limited he is without his spell components. Having neither a bit of fleece, nor caterpillar cocoon, his disguise would have to be mundane. He could make use of a distraction here though. A correctly placed sensory effect with Prestidigitation: an unusual scent or sound. If he is very lucky that will be enough to lure the navigator away from his post and then he-

   “I don’t know what you’re plotting.” Garred says, sinking down next to Caleb in an ungainly sprawl. “But if you’ll take a bit of advice, Mr. Widogast? Don’t do it.”

   Caleb doesn’t move to acknowledge Garred’s words, even as his blood flashes first cold with dread and then warm with annoyed ire at the rebuke. He continues to scan the deck and wonders how the former first-mate sussed out his objective. Had he given himself away with his murmuring? Had he been murmuring? Astrid had told him it was a bad habit.

   “How did you know?”

   “T’is written all over your face.” Garred mutters down at the cuff of his pants, his voice is low and casual and a little amused. As if this were just another bored conversation between bored prisoners. 

   Garred offers him a wide, humorless smile Caleb doesn’t return. “You’ve just got this look about you, of a creature determined to walk the plank.”

   “I am that...” Caleb shoots back icilly. “If my choices are to sit idle like a sheep set to slaughter and even the smallest chance at freedom, I will risk the plank.”

   His irritation grows, turning back to rage against himself. Why is he telling Garred any of this? He owes the man no explanations. They are practically strangers.

   “Your fate t’would not be death. Not if you were to remain.” Garred’s tone is decidedly pleading and Caleb wonders why the man cares so much. He scoffs in response, churlish and not caring.

   “Slavery then? Hardly better.” He feels his lip curl into an ugly snear. He wonders how much he looks like Trent, how much of his mentor’s cool, controlled vitriol twines its way into his words as he growls. 

   “Leave me, Garred. Go and see to your own  _ survival _ . Your empty comforts are wasted here”

   Garred gives him a long, measuring look Caleb does not bother to decypher before the man nods once and silently rises to his feet, stalking out of Caleb’s proximity. Caleb watches the man go out of the corner of his eye; just long enough to see him settle on the other side of the crowd, his expression drawn and ugly with concern. He continues to watch, expectant, but Garred makes no move or signal to any of their captors. Well, that’s fine. So long as the former first mate holds his tongue, Garred can be as concerned for Caleb as he wants. Caleb certainly won’t lose any sleep over it. 

    Once he’s is satisfied that at Garred won’t  _ immediately _ betray him, Caleb returns his attention to the deck. He only has one shot to get this right and no margin for failure. So Caleb forces himself to relax, patient for the right moment: when all backs are turned, bodies and minds entirely caught up in their myriad laborious tasks, distracted. He can see Fjord a ways off, working and singing with the other men, oblivious to Caleb’s indefatigable machinations. 

   But in that same moment, Caleb catches the briefest flash of yellow darting in his direction. The fleeting, tell-tale glance of an eye. Or perhaps a sign he has spent too many hours in the sun. 

   The glimpse still leaves Caleb strangely flat-footed and he finds himself craning his head to follow Fjord, seeking another glance. Which he never gets. 

   Fjord turns under Caleb’s careful scrutiny and makes his way aft. Slowly. Stretching his arms above his head as he meanders, curving the line of his spine into a mouthwatering arc. If Caleb didn’t know better, he would have sworn Fjord was teasing him, mocking him with the fluid roll of his slim hips.

   Shame and frustration are becoming sadly familiar and more palatable. They crash down over Caleb’s head, a wave over his head. Its waters are hot and it climbs high enough to throw him deep under its influence and he wrenches his eyes to the salt-swept boards under his feet.

   “All other considerations are secondary.” He reprises the montra. “All other considerations…”

   He does know better. Because  **pirates don’t tease.** Caleb wrestles his pulse back under control and settles once again into the task of waiting. The sound of the Captain’s cabin door is distant, but rings like a gunshot.

   “All other considerations…”

   And watching...

  
  


* * *

 

   It takes hours; through another pitiful lunch of stale biscuit and dried meat and deep into the scorching hot stanza of late afternoon, recited by lazy, spiteful poets who only seem to know synonyms for heat. The sun gouges merciless fingers along the exposed skin of Caleb’s face and neck, deepening his already well cultivated burns while the ponderously fluctuating number of crew members seems to mock him in abstract.

   Six. Then four. Then six. Then five. Then four. Then three. Then six. Then five. Then six. 

   Then two...

    And then, all at once everything is still. Even the wind seems to be holding its breath as the deck all but empties, non-essentials scurrying to find shade below, some respite from the brutal heat of the unforgiving tropical sun. Fjord hasn’t re-appeared since he retired to his own cabin just before lunch. And those few left on deck are occupied with finding a place to situate themselves where they will not have to suffer under the sun  and in their lazy scramble and seem to have forgotten their prisoners altogether.

   Caleb’s pulse quickens and he stands, forcing ease into every motion, while at the same time every instinct in him is screaming at him to make a break for it and run. 

   “What are you doing?” Someone hisses behind him, small and terrified. A man’s voice, but not Garred. Simple-minded. Fool. Weakling. Caleb doesn’t look back. His attention is set to the next step, more determined with every one to shake himself free of that muling chattel, and more certain with every one that he will hear a shout from aloft, or the quarter-deck; bringing his bid for freedom to an immediate and inglorious end. 

   And then Caleb’s suddenly standing at the foot of the stairway. He pauses to listen, but all is still above and below save for the soft creaking of timber and the rushing drive of the ocean.

   His heart jumps into his throat, pulse rapid with adrenaline, but Caleb hurriedly mounts the first stair, lest this strange spell of immunity he’s somehow cast on himself shatter from indecision. It’s half a dozen steps before he’s slowing again, stops just beneath the quarterdeck where he can here the navigator whistling a jaunty tune. 

   Caleb presses his back to the near wall, listening to a few bars as his mind races. Calm. He reminds himself. He’s planned this, he knows what he has to do.

   He takes a deep breath and reaches out, murmuring on the barest trace of an exhale as his hands roll through the motions of an incantation as familiar to him as his own reflected face. A moment is all it takes to release it, but to Caleb, tense and tightly wound, each syllable feels like its own small eternity. And then the spell is cast. Caleb holds his breath, not even daring to look, silently willing this mad scheme of his to work. He hears it faintly, just the barest suggestion of a sound further away, a strange, unknowable sound and begins whispering a prayer to whatever god watches over foolhardy mages, sweating through those first few tense seconds before the whistling above him grows distracted then stops altogether. Caleb hears a small, confused expletive and the tap of feet headed for the far side of the platform, chasing the unidentified noise.

   Caleb levers himself up just enough to look over the edge of the platform and sees a pair of scaborous, dirty feet striding away from him. 

   Good enough.

   Caleb slinks up the last few steps, creeping as quickly and as quietly as he dares with someone so close, wincing with each creaking board. Another half dozen steps and he’s standing in front of Fjord’s door. 

   It’s here that doubts begin crawling up from his toes, and another of Trent’s warnings begins to crow loudly.

_    “Desperate measures are not the product of desperate times, but an inferior mind.” _

   Caleb sighs and bullies past the encroaching doubts. He slips through the door and is a little surprised to see the interior is dark and unlit. He register’s a thick curtain drawn and hanging across the balcony windows, but can’t see Fjord anywhere in the room, even illuminated by the small slice of light slipping through the open door. He squints into the shadows, reaching blindly behind himself for the door, lest one of the crew notice it open and come to investigate.  _ Had Fjord left to go below decks? _

   His fingertips brush against the grain and it slams closed, plunging Caleb into darkness.

   Caleb whirls to grasp at the handle. He has no other warning. 

   He hears a rushing expulsion of magical energy behind him and sees a flash of blue-green light paint the door in sickly radiance, but before he can turn to face it, Fjord’s warning growl rumbles low in his ears. 

   “Don’t move.”

   Caleb freezes as a single, wild frisson of fear tingles up his spine to settle, bright, at the base of his skull. 

   “I came to talk.” He says. 

   Fjord chuckles and the sound of it...The fear disappears as quickly as it came and Caleb can feel his skin begin to prick once again. A familiar uncomfortable awareness of his captor. Of his...physicality...

   “Turn around.  _ Slowly _ .”

   Caleb raises his hands, stepping in a tight, tiny circle, until the rough of the door is flush against his back. And the barest whisper of a blade-tip is kissing threats into the hollow of his throat. 

   Caleb’s eyes are beginning to adjust to the chamber’s gloom. He can see Fjord, a looming outline and a pair of gleaming yellow eyes. 

   Caleb has never had the opportunity or really any desire to study the monstrous races during his time with the Academy, so he doesn’t know if this ominous glow is a trait shared by Fjord’s fiendish kin, or just those of Orcish descent.

   Or if it’s just Fjord’s eyes which glow with a pulling, effervescent light.

   Caleb swallows, testing the razor sharp sword edge against his adam’s apple. He makes no other move, waiting for Fjord’s next instruction, but the orcish pirate seems content to simply stand silently and watch him. Caleb can see Fjord’s eyes roving up and down his body, wandering up to scan his face. He wonders what Fjord sees in the planes of sunburned skin and waves of sun-bleached hair. 

   He wishes he could see well enough to study the half-orc in turn.

   “I came to talk.” Caleb tries again. “If you wouldn’t mind...” 

   He glances pointedly down at the blade at his throat, a gesture which Fjord couldn’t miss. There’s really no need for Fjord to restrain him. It isn’t as though Caleb has a Aasimar’s hope in the Nine Hells of physically overpowering him and they both know it.

   Fjord huffs a short laugh through his nose, but makes no move to sheath his weapon. “Then talk.”

   He’s going to make this difficult then. Caleb sighs.  _ He’ll  _ be straightforward then, in spite of whatever game Fjord seems intent on playing. He straightens up a little and puts out his chin, a small act of foolhardy obstiance which brings the blade dangerously close to piercing flesh. 

   “Very well. I’ll be candid. I know we are on course for Darktow isle.” He begins matter-of-factly, pleased at the slight tremor he can feel from the blade at his throat. He’s surprised Fjord. 

   “...I know you’ve been placed in charge of this ship and its crew, at least temporarily. And though I  have little in the way of practical nautical skill to offer in trade for my freedom, I would much prefer not to be sold once we reach the island.” He swallows.

   “And I know that you find me...compelling.”

   The air hangs heavy and for a moment Caleb doesn’t dare to even breath. Finally he feels the sword turn, a subtle twist of the wrist which brings the flat of the blade to light beneath his chin, gently guiding his head up. Caleb again offers no resistance, allowing Fjord to turn his face first to one side, and then the other.  

   When Fjord finally speaks his voice is amused. 

   “You certainly know a great deal...” The pirate chuckles and a phantom touch like fingertips shivers down Caleb’s spine.

   “...Caleb Widogast.”

   Caleb stands stunned and wide-eyed for only a moment before he regains himself, but it is a moment too long. He curses himself silently, forcing his breathing to remain even.

_    “Be always untenable.”  _ Trent would say. _ “A true wizard is never affected, but ever effective.” _

   He swallows, head still held tilted at the point of Fjord’s blade and staring down into the pirate’s face. He catches a flash of white teeth, triumphant, and does his best to glare down his nose. Never affected. Never affected.

   “Am I supposed to be intimidated that you know my name, Fjord?”

   He knows the power of names, has studied their purpose and effect, but that is only true of extra planer creatures, beings with a name written on the scape of their very soul. Here in the prime material names are more fluid, less potent, though Caleb does have the satisfaction of seeing Fjord’s eyes widen for an instant before they narrow again with amusement. He’s managed to surprise him a second time.

   “No.” The pirate admits in an easy, low murmur; which does nothing to sooth Caleb’s nerves, “I sort of figured that if you were at all smart, you’d be intimidated already.”    

   The blade disappears from Caleb’s throat, a second later it embeds itself into the door next to his ear with a hefty, intimidating ‘thud’. 

   It takes every ounce of resolve Caleb has not to jump. 

   And then Fjord is stepping in close, pressing in until Caleb can feel the curl of heated breath against his face. Fjord chuckles, low and intimate, and the sound of it seeps, a slow, confusing flush of desire into Caleb’s blood.

   “So tell me Caleb Widogast.” Fjord husks in the dark, “...How smart are you?”

  “You…” Caleb whispers and doesn’t know why, “...you certainly put on a good show.”

   Another chuckle. “And  _ that _ didn’t answer my question.” 

   Fjord leans in closer, until he’s close enough Caleb could lick his lips and touch skin. So close. His breath stutters and he breathes in the pirate’s scent, sweat and sun and salt and a sweetness he cannot name, but finds intoxicating nonetheless.

   “What do you want from me?” Caleb whispers breathlessly and hates himself for it.

   Fjord hums. “I’m curious, Caleb Widogast. What kind of a man sells himself to one man to avoid being sold to another?” Musing and amused and openly mocking. 

   Caleb bristles and bites back. “I’m here to bargain with you. Would I have even this much power once we reach Darktow?”

   “Fair enough.” Fjord replies carelessly, as though he were suddenly bored of the conversation. “So what are you offering me, Caleb Widogast?”

   Caleb startles at the first prickling touch of Fjord’s nails along his jaw. They trail across his flushed cheeks, the arch of one brow; down the prominent bridge of his nose, finally coming to rest on the fullness of his bottom lip. A sudden jolt of needle-sharp pain makes Caleb gasp. He tastes blood on his tongue, trickling beads weeping from his lip where Fjord’s sharp nails had pierced the tender skin.

   “Your body?” Fjord’s voice is a low rumble full of innuendo and Caleb is suddenly breathless with the suggestion in it. The implication of deep, dangerous things he should not want, with a being he cannot want. But does.

   Caleb closes his eyes, it isn’t as though he can see much anyway, and forces his voice to steady. He isn’t a blushing fucking maiden. He’s here of his own accord.

   “Yes. You can have my body.”

   The sword creaks where it’s embedded deeply and Caleb can sense Fjord shifting in to tease his breath over Caleb’s temple.

   “To fuck?”

   Caleb’s mouth goes dry. “Yes.”

   “Or hurt?”

   This comes less readily, but Caleb grits his teeth. He prepared himself for this possibility. 

   “Yes.”

   “Whatever I want. Whenever I want it.”

   “Whatever...your prerogative.”

   He hears a contemplative hum after he says this. Finally Fjord whispers softly into the shell of his ear. 

   “Would you offer me your mind, Caleb Widogast?”

   Caleb tenses and frowns. This is not a question he anticipated and he responds out of instinct. “No. My mind is my own.” 

   He is a little flummoxed. He can’t think what Fjord could possibly want with such a concession, what he could do with it even if he had it. But something in him says to give up his mind, even in word, would be unwise.

   Fjord merely laughs, as though Caleb’s answer hadn’t mattered to him one way or another and evaporates like smoke, pushes away and disappears entirely from Caleb’s awareness as if he’d never been anything more substantial than a nightmare. 

   Caleb gulps the free air, thoughtlessly grateful for the respite. He hears a sound like rushing waters and sees a flash of light the same dazzling shade of green as the ocean through the shield of his eyelids in the same moment than magic gentles a caress across his cheek. It is only for the briefest instant, gone in the time it takes to snap his eyes open, but when he turns to look he can tell even despite the darkness: the sword is gone too. He reaches up with tentative fingers and touches where memory tells him the blade had bit deeply. He feels the long furrow, the scar left behind, and confusion mounts in his mind.

_    What…? _

   Nearby a light flickers, the wane glow of a candle set alight. Caleb blinks against the sudden luminance, his eyes shying from the sudden, uncomfortable glare. Fjord is standing beside one of the hanging lanterns, shaking a still smouldering match. And there is no trace of the sword on his person. Caleb scans him from head to toe and back again, but he can see no scabbard, no harness or holster, no place Fjord might carry or even conceal such a weapon.

   “Well, Mr. Widogast...” Fjord sets the match on the desk, in a porcelain effigy of some aquatic creature and crosses his arms over his chest. His smile is insufferably smug.

   “...I do believe we have a deal.”

_ Magic _ . Caleb’s mind supplies and that small voice, which had only just begun to whisper that this might be a bad idea grows exponentially louder, clanging and candescent.  _ The half-orc has magic. And magic like none Caleb has seen in all his studies. _

_    Shit. _

   “Good.” Caleb says, keeping his back to the door, a veneer of careless calm. Because it’s far too late to turn back now. “I’m glad to hear it.”

   But he hasn’t lost control yet.

   A call comes from beyond the door, muted and distant, but caught up and echoed by a handful of voices, the cry of:

   ‘Land ho!’

   Fjord’s grin turns cheshire wide and just as devious. “Perfect timing.”

   He prowls back into Caleb’s space, a practice of sensual grace in fluid motion. Dangerous. Stunning.

   Caleb would be worried about his thunderously beating heart, but the truth is that he cannot be bothered about the traitorous little bastard at that moment. His entire focus is fastened entirely on cataloging every minute detail, every flickering eyelash, the pleasing crest of his high cheekbones, the gradient greens of his skin. Fjord doesn’t stop, not until he’s leaning down to breath against Caleb’s chapped, parted lips; his arm wrapping around his body as he breathes.

   “If you could step away from the door.”

   Caleb nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to duck out of Fjord’s loose embrace.

   Fjord directs a knowing smirk and a playfully arched brow his way before ducking out of the cabin, leaving it open behind him. Caleb follows quickly, there is little use in posturing now.

   To his credit, the man at the helm doesn’t question Fjord when he sees Caleb trailing after to stand beside his Captain. His eyebrows knit and his head makes several passes between them, but he makes no comment otherwise.

   Fjord steps to the fore, leaving Caleb to silently observe as he leans out over the rail to bellow instructions. The crew scatters to their task, all six. Fjord turns to the navigator again.

   “Stay close. I don’t want anyone on that island thinking we’re chasing her, you got me?”

   The navigator nods. “As you say.”

   The path to Darktow is a maze of natural hazards as far as Caleb can tell, a winding narrow corridor of safety twisting through crags and reefs. He can see the wrecks of many ships, their bones lying bleached and crusted in barnacles as a warning for those who have perhaps stumbled onto this foolhardy path.  _ Turn back. Dead men tell no tales _ . 

   They were already a good portion of the way through by Caleb’s estimation, he can already see the isle itself. It rises up from the water like a monolith, standing tall and proud and alone against the waters which crest aggressively to beat themselves against its rocky sides. Docks have been erected at the edges and a few ships already nestle within the relatively safer waters of her bosom.

   Caleb’s mind his spinning and he feels a pronounced sense of relief. He could not have cut that closer if he tried.

   “Take us in, Mr. Gibbs.” Fjord nods and shifts his focus once more to Caleb. It takes a few short steps for him to be just past Caleb, bending to playfully chuckle in one ear.

   “I’m so glad to have you, Mr. Widogast. Honestly, I was beginning to think you would never come.” 

   He leaves Caleb standing numbly on the quarter deck, his trailing footsteps quickly lost to the rushing cacophony of ship and sea.

   Caleb’s eyes trail from the rapidly nearing island to the crew, to the pitiful huddle of men and women. Most of them are staring at Darktow themselves, their eyes wide and fearful. Except Garred. He’s watching Caleb, his face twisted with pity.

   No, Caleb realizes with dawning horror. He hasn’t lost control. You cannot lose something you never had.

 


End file.
